


Memories of the Future

by MiriamKenneath



Category: Berserk (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Dream Sex, Dreams and Nightmares, Dubious Consent, M/M, Self-cest, cliffhanger ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-02-16 18:15:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18696730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiriamKenneath/pseuds/MiriamKenneath
Summary: It begins in the darkness, the pitch blackness. It begins with the sound of beating wings, first soft, then louder. Thenlouder.Whether eyes opened or closed, it does not matter. He can see nothing. But he knows.He knows.Something is coming. No, someoneis coming. For him.





	Memories of the Future

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LuciferxDamien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciferxDamien/gifts).



His name is Griffith.

He was born in the gutter, but he dreams of ruling his own kingdom. Whenever he is lonely and shivering with cold, whenever his belly is empty and cramping with hunger, he imagines his shining city. He imagines his castle. In his imagination is a fantasyland, a paradise, and in this miraculous place he is safe and beloved and wants for absolutely nothing. His dearest, most treasured, precious wish. Yes. For as long as he can remember, he’s had _that_ dream.

 _This_ dream, however, is different.

It begins in the darkness, the pitch blackness. It begins with the sound of beating wings, first soft, then louder. Then _louder_.

Whether eyes opened or closed, it does not matter. He can see nothing. But he knows. _He knows_.

Something is coming. No, some _one_ is coming. For him.

He tries to see, to peer into the blackness. He tries so hard that his eyes begin to water and ache. But no, he can’t see. Ah, if only he could _see_ …

It has come. Now, it has arrived. It is there, somewhere high up in the sky directly above him. The thrumming beat of its wings is deafening as it begins to descend. The air moves - a swirl, an updraft, so powerful he feels nearly lifted up off of his feet. A hot wind whips and lashes his hair around his face.

It stings his skin.

It lands directly in front of him. He can hear the soft thump. He can hear other things as well – the rustle of a forward step, a second step, the creak of folding wings. The breathing. Oh, the breathing. It is rhythmic, animal-hot and heavy.

Then there is the touch. He cannot see the hand in the pitch blackness with its terrible talons, but ahhh, it makes him shudder, the intimate touch, such an intimate touch, and last – but oh no definitely not least, never, _ever_ least – the deep and richly honeyed voice…

‘I am – ’

…and Griffith is jolted awake, heart pounding, slick with sweat and sticky from the semen between his legs.

 

They are the Band of the Hawk, and Griffith is their leader.

He has taken the image of the hawk as his sigil. He wears a helmet shaped like the cruel, curved beak of a bird of prey.

He tells no one why.

His life is better now than it was; he no longer sleeps in the gutter which birthed him. Instead, he sleeps surrounded by loyal comrades, soldiers at arms who love him and would die for him.

He still dreams of ruling his own kingdom. He makes no secret of that anymore. His comrades? They know.

As for that _other_ dream…? The one which begins in darkness…?

Of _that_ dream, he tells no one. No one at all. He does not quite know why he does this, but he knows that he must. That secrecy is important. That, were someone – anyone – to know…

Actually, he does not know what would happen. He just knows he does not wish to learn.

Because, well. He still has the dream, of course. One might even call it a semi-regular nocturnal occurrence. If anything, it has become more vivid as he has grown older, more self-confident, more assured.

And _the other_ has grown along with him.

It is not merely satisfied with grazing him with its talons anymore, no, oh no. It has become brazen in its attentions, and so he has come to understand its shape better. Apart from the razor-tipped fingers and scaly bird’s feet and the wings which rise high up behind it from its shoulder blades, the form is roughly that of a man’s, hairless skin and sinew and muscle, a man’s flat, hard chest, a man’s thick, flaccid cock –

It kisses him in the pitch blackness, tongue thrusting deep, lips salt-sweet with blood. He moans and twines his legs around its waist, inviting, and caresses its head, feels the shape of that cruel, curved beak over the bridge of the nose, and it whispers to him, no louder than a sigh…

‘My name is – ’

…and Griffith tears himself violently from the dream. He does not wish to hear the name. He knows that if he does, something will end.

Something will change forever.

 

He is a prisoner, and he has forgotten his name.

He has forgotten his dream of ruling his own kingdom. He has forgotten everything. Everything, that is, except…except…

The rush of wings in the pitch blackness. The descent. The whirling wind whipping his hair into his face. The approach. The sound of steps, of breathing. The hands which touch him, the arms which cradle him, the chest which presses against his own as they kiss, the hard, cruel shape of the head, the soft, flaccid cock…

Or maybe it’s not so flaccid anymore, no, oh no. Not so flaccid anymore.

The cock feels like a man’s at first, like steel sheathed in smooth, silken skin. A crown, with graceful, tapered edges, peeking out of the foreskin. He seizes it, greatly daring, and strokes, and the sheath of skin is loose, mobile and easy to retract –

Something moves inside that sheath of skin, something curls and twists and _pulses_ , and before he can investigate further, can make himself understand what he has felt, cruel talons pry his legs apart and hold him open for that cock, which is pressing, and pushing, pushing, _pushing_ , until he feels the obscene stretch of it in his entrails, in his stomach, in his _throat_. He thinks he can taste its rank, musky salt on his tongue –

The first thrust forces a gasp out of him, and the second a wail, thin and high. He is hard as stone, and his cock taps a terrible rhythm out against the creature’s abdomen in response to each mighty shove. He is going to come, oh oh ooohh, he is going to come, nothing can stop it now, and when that cock uncurls, unfurls, _explodes_ within him, the pleasure of it is so intense, so bright that it lights the enveloping darkness for an instant and he sees…

‘My name is Femto, and I am you.’

…his own wild eyes in the face of the demon.

Griffith screams himself awake. He screams and screams and screams, but no gaoler comes.

 

* * *

_**-fin-** _


End file.
